Crossfire
by Alcnor
Summary: When somebody wants Maureen's protest stopped, Mark gets caught in the crossfire.
1. Surprise

Mark cursed as he cut his hand on the rusty old hanger currently wrestling for control of the brown jacket with him. He inspected the wound briefly, then yanked his coat out of the small closet of the cluttered loft and slid it on, his camera tucked under one arm. He wiped the few drops of blood on his pants. "See you later, Roger."

"Where are you going?" his roommate asked without turning around, playing a few chords on his guitar while relaxing on their battered, duct taped old sofa.

"Joanne did something to the mic, so I got tech duty again," Mark said, rolling his eyes. He couldn't believe he was helping Maureen again, but somehow, even if he and Maureen were "friends" now, even if the long kisses and romantic dinners and giggling dances were gone, when she called him up, her voice panicked, when he could imagine her frazzled hair flying as she wrung her hands and curled the cord around her wrists, when she called him "Pookie", he could never quite tell her no.

"Have fun," Roger replied. "I've got a Life Support meeting in a few hours, so if I'm not here when you get back, you know where to go." He winced as he struck a wrong note, and it reverberated throughout the loft. Mark couldn't help but smile at the confused face of his roommate.

"Gotcha. Don't hurt your brain trying to come up with your newest song," Mark teased, poking fun at Roger's uncanny ability to nitpick at everything from a sharp note to a word that didn't quite fit the meter, making his songs few and far between.

"Ha ha," Roger said sarcastically. "Very funny." He strummed a few chords, then sang. "I wish Mark would move his fat pumpkin head, we're out of milk and we're out of bread..."

"Maybe we'd have some money and some class, if Roger would move his lazy ass!"

"Hey!" Mark chuckled quietly as he walked out the door. Living with Roger may not always be luxurious, but it was far more enjoyable to be with their ragtag group of friends than in college studying to be a doctor or a lawyer, or worse, at home with his parents.

He jogged down the last couple of steps, then made for the exit to the foyer when something, most likely a baseball bat, slammed into his head. His glasses clattered to the ground, but he instinctively curled around the camera to cushion it from the blows now raining down on him. He gasped as a foot landed in his stomach, knocking the breath out of him. Another foot slammed into his head, and as his vision started to go black, he heard someone say "Grab his stuff." The last thing he felt was a pair of strong arms lifting him, and then finally, darkness.


	2. Suspense

"Thank you, Ali," Paul said as the aforementioned woman sat down. "Does anyone else have anything to say?"

Roger slowly stood up. He had never been the most talkative guy, and they respected that, and gave him his space. "I don't know... what it is, but… for the first time in along time, everything's just… okay."

"What do you mean?" Paul asked.

"Well, things have just been going right… I mean, it's still _here_," he said, motioning around them, "it's still hell frozen over New York City, but nothing's been going wrong lately. It's like the world's finally bothered to pick me up, and while I'm not forgetting what's happened to me, I'm getting past it." He smiled. "No day but today, right?" He sat down, where Angel gave him a one-armed hug and Collins patted him on the back.

Paul smiled. "Thank you, Roger. Anybody else?" He glanced around quickly. "Alright, I'll see you all next week."

As the three walked down the front steps, they were met by a frazzled Joanne. "Have you guys seen Mark?" she asked. "He was supposed to be at the warehouse hours ago!"

"No, he left about twenty minutes before I came here, and I haven't seen him since," Roger said.

"If it were anybody else, I'd say they finally decided they'd had enough, but…" Collins started.

"It's Mark," Angel finished. "I don't think that boy would be able to refuse his last dollar to an orphan, let alone to Maureen." The other two nodded in agreement. "I'll go find a payphone and call Alexi, see if he's at work."

"And I'll call Mimi, see if he's at the club," Roger said. A cell phone rang, and Joanne turned away for a moment to take the call.

"Maureen, what- What? How? Should we-? Alright, I'll tell them. We'll get Mimi and be there as fast as we can." She hung up, and turned around. "We need to get to the loft, fast. Something just showed up at our doorstep. It's about Mark."


	3. Message

Mark's eyes slowly opened. His head was pounding, and his stomach… God, his stomach felt like it had been hit with a sledgehammer. He looked around the room. Concrete walls, concrete floor, concrete ceiling, concrete door… He stood up slowly, one arm wrapped around his abused stomach. "Hello?" he called out, his voice soft.

"I see you're awake."

Mark spun around, to see a tall, suited man standing in the doorway. "Who are you? Where the hell am I?" The man just laughed, and walked in, another man behind him toting a tripod. "Hey, my camera! What are you doing with it?" They gave him no response, only continued setting up the camera. "Why the fuck am I here? What the hell is going on?" No response. "You realize you got a guy from the East Village, right? My friends and I are broke."

The second man turned around and hoisted him up by his scarf. "Shut up," he snarled as Mark clawed at his hands. The man in the suit gave him a look, and Mark was promptly dropped to his knees, gasping and massaging his throat.

Finally, after a long silence, the man in the suit turned around. "Mr. Cohen, we know exactly who you are. We needed to ask you a little favor."

Mark scowled at him. "There are better ways to ask someone than beating the shit out of them."

The man frowned, but moved on. "I'm here as a representative of the Grey family. We understand you are close to one Maureen Johnson, and are asking you to persuade her to stop her protest. We don't want to get the police involved."

Mark stood up, and looked at him. "So, let me get this straight; you beat me up, you kidnap me, Mr. Nice Guy over here half-strangles me to death, and now you want me to get one of my friends to stop protesting what you're doing to us?"

"Mr. Cohen, there will be a healthy reward if you can assist us. You're close to Ms. Johnson, and we're certain that if anyone can change her mind, you can. We're committed to stopping this at all costs."

Mark stopped to think about it. Would it really be worth it? Guilt? Being a sell-out? It wasn't a hard choice.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to refuse your offer," Mark said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be going." He turned around, and opened the door. He made it a full step out before a hand grabbed the back of his shirt and slammed him into the wall. His head cracked against the concrete, and a rough hand grabbed his hair and yanked his head back.

"Then I'm afraid we'll have to persuade Ms. Johnson another way," the man said coldly. "Ms. Johnson, if you don't cancel your protest before your curtain opens on Saturday evening, Mr. Cohen may not make it back in one piece. And, as an incentive…"

"Wait, who are you talking to?" Mark questioned desperately. He noticed the little handle turning on his camera, and it clicked. "Shit, are you filming this? Maureen, don't do it, you need to-" He was cut off by a sharp slap to the face, cracking his glasses, and everything spit into pieces.

"Every day you wait, Mr. Cohen will become more and more acquainted with the meaning of pain. Make your decision." With that, he flipped off the camera. "Raymond, if you could, please." One more sharp kick was delivered to Mark's stomach, and the two men left, leaving Mark to the cold concrete.


	4. Demands

Maureen opened the door the moment Collins knocked, as if she had been waiting right next to the door. "Baby, what's wrong?" Joanne asked with concern. "What's going on?" Maureen just waved them all over to the couch.

"I found this addressed to us on the front mat," she said, waving a cassette tape. "Watch."

The scene opened up to a bit of shaking, as if it were held by hands other than the one of the filmmaker who owned it. Eventually, the shaking stopped.

"_Who are you? Where the hell am I?"_

Roger sighed in relief. His friend was alright, although his hair looked a little mussed, and his glasses somewhat askew.

"_Hey, my camera! What are you doing with it_?" He held back a little smile. No matter what the situation, the camera was Mark's baby, and God knew how many times he had taken a tumble trying to protect the old thing. _"Why the fuck am I here? What the hell is going on?"_ They ignored him.

"_You realize you got a guy from the East Village, right? My friends and I are broke."_ The camera shook again, and they saw a mess of limbs flying before seeing Mark held aloft by his scarf, trying desperately to free himself.

"_Shut up," _the thug growled at him, before dropping him to his knees. They all winced.

Roger and Collins had definitely been in some tangles back in the day, Maureen, Joanne, and Mimi had gotten in a couple of catfights, and even Angel had kicked some ass when some skinhead tried to grab her purse… but Mark… Mark had always been the good boy, taking a punch or two to break up the fight, but never getting provoked or provoking others, choosing to take the high road and let his pride take a beating. Mark was the one who couldn't defend himself against a freaking kitten…

"_Mr. Cohen, we know exactly who you are. We needed to ask you a little favor."_

_Mark scowled at him. "There are better ways to ask someone than beating the shit out of them."_

_The man frowned. "I'm here as a representative of the Grey family. We understand you are close to one Maureen Johnson, and are asking you to persuade her to stop her protest. We don't want to get the police involved."_

"_So, let me get this straight; you beat me up, you kidnap me, Mr. Nice Guy over here half-strangles me to death, and now you want me to get one of my friends to stop protesting what you're doing to us?"_

Roger groaned. Of all the times to grow some balls, Mark…

"_Mr. Cohen, there will be a healthy reward if you can assist us. You're close to Ms. Johnson, and we're certain that if anyone can change her mind, you can. We're committed to stopping this at all costs."_

Maureen scowled. What kind of man couldn't even bother to approach her on his own, instead trying to get her buddies to do it for them? Not that she would change her mind either way, but still…

They watched Mark stop to think about it, although they already knew what he was going to say. _"I'm afraid I'm going to have to refuse your offer." _Good old Mark. _"Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be going." _They watched him turn towards the door, then watched in shock as the thug pulled him back, his head hitting the wall with an audible _crack_.

"_Then I'm afraid we'll have to persuade Ms. Johnson another way. Ms. Johnson, if you don't cancel your protest before your curtain opens on Saturday evening, Mr. Cohen may not make it back in one piece. And, as an incentive…"_

"_Wait, who are you talking to?" _They heard their friend ask, his voice panicked. They watched him look straight at the camera, then his eyes widen in realization. _"Shit, are you filming this? Maureen, don't do it, you need to-" _The image went blurry again, but there was the sound of a hard smack, and when the camera refocused, the right lens of Mark's glasses was cracked, and there was a large purple bruise beginning to form on his cheek.

"_Every day you wait, Mr. Cohen will become more and more acquainted with the meaning of pain. Make your decision." _The screen went black, and they sat there, horrified.

Roger's hands were trembling as he stood up and punched the wall with all of his might. "God damn it!" he yelled. A soft hand on his arm brought him out of his rage, as he turned around and clutched Mimi close to him. Angel comforted a shaking Collins, and Joanne was keeping a furious Maureen from running out the door and beating the shit out of those bastards who were hurting their Mark.

Finally calm, Maureen's fury turned to fright. "What are we going to do?" she whispered softly, gripping Joanne's arm tightly.

Roger's eyes hardened. "We need to find Benny."


	5. Innocence

Mark winced. The hard concrete scraped against his cheek as he struggled to sit up, eventually managing to prop himself against the wall, his head throbbing and his side aching.

How did this end up happening to him? He was a Bohemian in the East Village, for fuck's sake; he wasn't involved in drugs, or in gangs or mobs or whoring himself out on the streets; he was Mark Cohen, straight A, quiet Jewish boy, voted Most Likely to Lead a Boring Life. This was the kind of thing that he might have expected to happen to Collins, Roger, Mimi, Maureen, or even Benny… if that bastard wasn't on the other side of the situation. How could he? How could he sell him out?

He had never done anything wrong! The most daring thing he had ever done, besides that one time with Nannette Himmelfarb after tango lessons, was moving to New York City. He had packed up his things, told his somewhat reluctant family goodbye, and taken the first train out of there, with only his camera and one Roger Davis to accompany him.

The more questionable aspects of his life began to follow soon after, after he began to make friends, but he was willing to exchange security for love, drugs, and AIDS. He had never been the most social guy, always observing the friendships from behind the camera, and suddenly being pulled out from behind that tripod, and into the laughter and teasing and family feelings had been like a wake-up call to the real world. But, even though he accepted the risks that came with it, he never did the drugs, he never smoked, and he knew firsthand about the effects of AIDS.

He was innocent, as innocent as a twenty-something year old Boho could be in the Big Apple, and yet he was the one sitting as the fucking damsel in distress in a concrete prison, waiting for something to happen besides getting the shit beaten out of him yet again.

Mark sighed. He didn't even know what to hope for, so he just hoped for everything to turn out OK, then slowly lowered himself onto his side as his stomach rumbled, and winced as the hard concrete scraped against his cheek.


	6. Accusations

Benjamin Coffin III sat alone in the Life Café, the only sign of his anxiety being the tapping of his polished shoe on the dirty tile. The phone call had been sudden, abrupt, and leaving him nervous about what was to come. His friends thought him a sell-out, a representation of everything they wanted to overthrow, corporate America. They couldn't understand… did they think he wanted to wear a three-piece suit every day, to put away his earrings and jeans, to be a landlord? He was nowhere near as talented as Mark when it came to filmmaking, but he had always dreamed of producing movies, of going to Hollywood…

And he would have, too, if not for a drunken mistake, if Alison hadn't gotten pregnant, if she hadn't miscarried and they hadn't cried together on their dirty little sofa, if it hadn't all gone wrong, if her father hadn't bailed them out in return for a new errand boy. If only he could have stayed…

The bell above the door clanked as the six scruffy bohemians walked in, and Benny was surprised by their appearances… they all looked as if they had been hit by a tornado, and by the way they were looking at him, he was sitting on a prime piece of Kansas real estate. They didn't bother to sit, only stood around his table and looked at him. Benny gulped. Somehow, the six of them were infinitely scarier than a board of directors.

"Benjamin Coffin III." She didn't say it sarcastically, or even teasing, like she used to, just quietly, matter-of-factly.

"Maureen, what is the meaning of this?" She looked at him, and he noticed how stressed she looked, more stressed than she had sounded on the phone.

"Mark was kidnapped," Mimi whispered.

"What?" He was honestly shocked. "When was the last time you saw him? How the- why would anyone want to kidnap Mark?"

"This morning, around 9. He was going to go help Joanne set up for the protest, and he never showed up," Roger said.

"Well, then how can you be sure he was-?"

"They sent us a video," Maureen choked out. "They were hurting him, Benny. They said if I didn't cancel the protest, they'd kill him."

He didn't know how to react. God knew he wasn't too rich for fear, but maybe too numb, by now… He stood up. "What can I do to help?"

"You can tell us where he is," Collins whispered, speaking for the first time.

"What?"

In less than a second, Benny had his shoulders pinned to the wall, and Collins was looking at him dangerously. "Tell us where Mark is."

"I honestly have no idea what you're talking about! How would I know where he is?"

Angel pulled Collins off of Benny, then turned to the latter. "The man said he was a representative speaking for the Grey family."

"And we don't know all that many rich, psychopathic Greys," Collin spat.

Benny's heart raced, and for the first time in a long time, he couldn't think of what to say. "I…I really don't know, I swear I had nothing to do with this! I… I'll talk to Alison, I'll talk to the Board of Directors, I'll talk to my investor-"

"Your father-in-law," Roger said quietly.

"…Yes. I'll see what I can do."

The musician gazed at him a minute, then turned to walk away, along with the rest of the artists. There were no goodbyes, only a very faint, choked up, "Please. For Mark." The bell clanged as they left, and Benny leant his head against the cool brick.

He pulled out his cellphone, and dialed the number. "Alison, it's me. We need to talk."


	7. Disadvantage

Mark was awoken by a hard boot pressing into his chest, and he blearily turned towards the camera, which, sure enough, had a turning handle and a businessman behind it. The pressure wasn't quite to the point of pain- yet – but it was rather unnerving. A hand grabbed his chin. "Smile for the camera, Marky."

With his glasses partially broken, and a raging headache, his vision was limited to basic shapes and movement, it was no big surprise when he didn't see the boot moving up, then stomping on his ribs. He heard something crack, and held back a scream. That, at very best, was going to leave a very nasty bruise.

"Today is Sunday, December 26th, Ms. Johnson. You have five days to cancel your protest, but, holding true to our word, Mr. Cohen is going to pay for your lack of cooperation."

Mark groaned as he was pulled to his feet, where he leaned unsteadily against the wall. "We're going to fight," the thug leered. "You win, and we'll let you outta here." He grinned. "Lose, and I get to beat the shit out of you." He took a step forward. "Ready?"

Mark managed to blurt out, "I don't fight," before being slammed into the wall, fists flying into his stomach, chest, and face. He clutched desperately at the wall, trying to remain upright.

"Aren't you going to fight back?"

"I… can't… don't… fight…" Raymond took a step towards him, and he used the little strength left in his legs to try to back away. "Please… don't… I'm not-" A fist swung into his stomach at full force, and he collapsed to his hands and knees, dry heaving the nothingness he had eaten in the last couple of days, coughing up blood. His arms gave out under him, and his vision went black once more.

"Time, Ms. Johnson, is running out."


	8. Insecure

Benny loosened his tie and shrugged off his coat, setting his briefcase down by the door, avoiding the gaze of his wife for as long as possible. "Benny, honey… you wanted to talk?" He sat down beside her, finally looking her in the eye. She looked worried. "What's wrong?"

"You remember Mark, right? My old roommate?" She nodded. "He was kidnapped."

Alison was shocked. "Who would want to kidnap Mark?"

Benny's palms sweated as he fiddled with the hem of his button-down shirt. "Apparently, they got a video telling them to stop Maureen's protest… from a guy claiming to represent the Grey family. They asked me if I was behind it, and I really have no idea… do you?"

Her eyes hardened. "How do you know this isn't some scam they're running? They hate me, Benny."

"They don't hate you!" he protested.

"Yes they do! They've never forgiven me for taking you away for them."

He took her hands in his. "Alison, if anyone, they're mad at me. They think I sold out and married you for money… you and I know differently. I love you, but I have to know, do you know anything about this, anything that could help us find Mark?"

Her gaze softened. "I don't know, Benny, I truly don't. I wouldn't think anyone in my family would even think of doing that to someone… Why don't you ask Dad… he might be able to help us rally a search team."

He embraced her. "I will," he said, truthfully. He would go to talk to her father… but not for his help. Benny was beginning to get a good idea of who might have done it.


	9. Nightmare

Mark couldn't even bring himself to move when he heard the door open, just wearily move his eyes skyward and hope for a miracle. Something hit him in the side, and then the door creaked shut again. Confused, he slowly managed to crane his head until he saw what it was. A plain, plastic-wrapped sandwich… his stomach growled, and he moved a little bit faster, ignoring the pain to reach his goal… a little further… a little more… his fingers closed around the sandwich, and he pulled it back towards him, peeling off the plastic wrap and chewing slowly, savoring the feeling of food going into his empty stomach.

The empty plastic wrap fluttered to the ground, and Mark's stomach settled, still mostly empty but satisfied for the time being. He lowered himself back to the ground, and for the first time let sleep overtake him.

* * *

He was awoken by rough hands pulling him upright, and a suave voice narrating somewhere in the background. "December 27th, Ms. Johnson. Another day, another punishment for your friend here." Something pricked Mark's skin, and he looked down to see a needle making its way into him. He tried to push away, but hands held him as the syringe pressed down. Mark felt lightheaded as the drug made its way into his system, and began to shake violently, sweat pouring down his face. The hands were pushing him in, folding him up, the room was shrinking… He began thrashing, the colors were swirling around him…

He looked to the man on his right, only to see Roger there, holding him down. "Roger… let me up… Rog…" Roger grinned, and dug his nails in to Mark's skin. He turned around, only to see Collins and Angel, smirking. "Col-lins… An-gel… help…" They laughed at him, their skin glowing red, as they carved patterns into his arms with little knives.

He threw his head back, gasping for air, only to see an upside-down Mimi and Joanne hanging off of a humongous Benny, cheering and taunting as Mark drowned in sweat. He looked skyward, only to see a gigantic Maureen standing there, smiling, and he relaxed a little. Then she leaned down, and in one fluid motion, ripped out his heart. Mark _screamed_.

Then, over as quickly as it had started, everything went black, and Mark curled into himself as his stomach emptied itself on the concrete floor, shaking and sweating as the drugs finished making their way through his body. Finally, everything began to go numb, and all was silent.


	10. Deceit

The rather large wooden door swung open, brushing against the plush carpet of the posh office. The man in the desk looked up briefly. "Benjamin, a pleasure to see you."

Benny strode up to him, and put his palms on the edge of the desk, looking down at him. "Where's Mark?"

"What?" the man asked. "Oh, you mean Mr. Cohen, Ms. Johnson's friend, correct?"

"Yes," Benny seethed. "With all due respect, Mr. Grey, that idea was way out of line, not to mention illegal and immoral. So, I'll ask without involving the police or making a scene: Where is my friend?"

Mr. Grey stood up, brushing some nonexistent dirt off of his spotless pants. "Benjamin, Benjamin, Benjamin, haven't I taught you anything? Business before pleasantries, family before friends? This studio is the key to our futures, to Alison's future, and that protest is in direct obstruction of our plans." He paused. "You do want my daughter to have a good future, I assume."

Benny sighed. "I do, but-"

"But nothing. One way or another, we are going to convince Ms. Johnson to cancel that protest, of her own free will, without the police, and, more importantly, without besmirching our good name."

"They'll do everything in their power to besmirch that name if this goes on any longer!"

"Nobody cares about a bunch of ragamuffin Alphabet City bohemians, Benjamin!" Mr. Grey exclaimed. "They are _nothing_! They are worthless street punks, stupid children, and, dare I say it, losers! They should have learned like the rest of the world, like you and I, that being minstrels and painters won't get them anywhere in life, that a nice diploma hanging on the wall is the only thing that can assure you safety in the world."

Benny opened his mouth to argue, but thought better of it. If he wanted to help Mark, arguing with the man in charge wouldn't help. He sighed. "I suppose you're right, sir. But, if it's not too much to ask, may I have your permission to visit Mark? I might be able to talk some sense into him."

Mr. Grey smiled warmly. "Of course, Benjamin." He picked up the phone. "Lorraine, call Jonathan, please. Yes, that's the place." He put down the phone. "A car should be here for you shortly."

Benny smiled uncomfortably. "Thank you, sir."

Mr. Grey grinned. "Oh, no problem whatsoever. Hopefully, you'll be able to persuade Mr. Cohen." He opened the door. "Now, shoo! The car will be here any minute!" Benny walked out the door, his composure set once again, as he strode towards the front entrance, where a limousine waited for him. As the car pulled away, Mr. Grey picked up the phone again. "Richard? It's me. Listen closely…"


	11. Escape

Mark was awake, but he kept his eyes tightly shut as he lay on his side, curled up. He didn't want to see what might be waiting for him; he didn't want to acknowledge the pain. Eventually, though, he cracked one eye open, and breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing was there.

Heavy footsteps outside the door. Mark shrank back against the wall, hoping they wouldn't come inside. They didn't. Instead, they hurried past, and Mark caught snatches of conversation. "Boss's son", "pissed".

Making sure there was nobody about to come in, Mark stood up, wobbling a bit at first, clutching his side, but gaining his balance, walking across the floor and grabbing his camera. Then, taking the stem of his glasses, he carefully slid it into the lock on the door. _Chk… chk… chk… click_. Pulling it out, he opened the door ever so slightly and peered out.

At the end of the hallway stood Benny, fighting against a couple of guards. "Let me go! I'm here under orders from Mr. Grey!"

"Yeah, and we got orders not to let you in!"

Mark knew it would be his only chance. Quietly propping the door open, he slipped out, making his way down the other end of the hall. However, his only mistake was turning back. Benny's eyes widened, and the guards noticed. They spun around. "Hey, you!" They ran towards him, and Mark turned tail and sprinted as fast as he could for the door. His glasses clattered to the ground, but he had no time to get them. He fumbled with the door handle. This better lead outside…

He flung it open to fresh air and pouring rain. He ran around the corner of the building, where, to his amazement, was a main road. He threw out his arm. "Taxi!" he yelled frantically. His side was starting to hurt, and his head… everything was blurry. A yellow cab appeared next to him, miraculously. He clambered in quickly, his only words to the driver being "Avenue B, fast."

After they had left the building behind, Mark began to breathe again. The cab driver looked at him strangely, but said nothing. You got all types in New York. "How much you got, kid? Avenue B is a long way from here."

Mark groped through his pockets blindly. "Fifteen dollars and eighty-three cents… I think," he said, handing the money to the driver sheepishly.

The driver was sympathetic. "That won't get you far, but Avenue B is close to my next route, so I'll bring you as far as I can." Mark said nothing, only focused on keeping himself conscious. Eventually, they pulled to a stop, about fifteen blocks from the loft. "This is as far as I can take ya," the cabbie said apologetically. Mark climbed out, and began trekking through the pouring rain, holding his camera wrapped in his coat.

Cold, cold, cold, was all he could think. He began counting blocks. One down, fourteen left. One and a half down, thirteen-and-a-half left. One and three quarters down, thirteen-and-a-quarter left. Then he counted steps. One, two, three, four, five… fifty-eight, fifty-eight and a half, fifty-nine… His movement slowed, and he began counting breaths. One, in, out, two, in, out, three, in, out…

A car pulled up behind him, and he saw a demonic grin leering at him. He began to run, pushing through the sheets of water pouring down on him. Mark tripped, and watched in terror as the car filled with rowdy teenagers sped by, splashing him with even more water. He limped under a ledge, and checked his camera for damage, then wrapped it back up and continued on.

He was about a block from the loft when another car pulled up behind him, and this time, it was Raymond's angry face that greeted him. His breath hitched in his throat, and he sprinted as fast as he possibly could towards his safe haven.

The car bore down on him, and his legs felt like they were made of lead. Finally, finally, he made it to the door, threw it open, and threw the deadbolt. He watched through the window as the car slowed down and drove by, as Raymond sent him a death glare. Petrified, Mark didn't move until he was past.

Then, turning slowly, he began to make his way up the stairs. There had never seemed like there were so many before, but now the four flights of stairs stretched on for what seemed like forever. His mind was beginning to grow foggy as he grew closer to the top. Perhaps so much exercise wasn't a good idea after getting the shit beaten out of you multiple times… He stumbled, and grabbed onto the rail for dear life. Just one more flight… each step felt like a million as his blurry vision went black around the edges, and his head pounded… there it was, one more step… he pulled at the big metal door that guarded their loft, but his efforts were in vain. Attempting to steady himself against the door, he knocked with as much force as he had left in him. It didn't open, and the last scrap of self-preservation he had panicked. What if they weren't home? Raymond would come back... He panicked at the thought of another beating, and pounded at the door. His arm fell to his side from exhaustion, and he was in despair. Roger. Raymond. Collins. Benny. Angel. _Raymond_.

Suddenly, the door slid open, and Mark sighed in relief as he let his eyes close. Safe… He began to fall, but a pair of strong arms caught him, and he let himself drift off to the sounds of worried murmurs and chatter. Safe.


	12. Surrender

Roger was a fidgeter. He had always been one, and always would be. He would fidget when he was anxious, nervous, excited, scared, override the basic emotional capacities and he would begin fidgeting. That was what he was doing now, twisting his wrists back and forth, shaking his head ever so slightly, bumping his leg up and down over the edge of the old couch, fidgeting anxiously as he waited.

However, he tried to keep it to a minimum, as Mimi was resting against him. Mimi was a twister. Unnerve her, and her long, dark hair would fall around her face, and her fingers would become entangled in it, twisting it, twiddling the ends of it, braiding and unbraiding and shifting and moving it until it became a horrible, tangled mess, at which point she would rake her fingers through it until it was somewhat normal again, then repeat.

Off to the right sat Collins, with Angel balanced precariously on his lap, her back leaning against the large metal table serving as Collins' desk. Collins was a doodler, tracing meaningless patterns into the papers of his students with his fingernail, occasionally picking up a pen and sketching a stylized grade onto the papers. Angel, being a musician, was a tapper, keeping a beat to an imaginary song, her long, slender fingers tapping onto the cloth of Collins' coat, a soft, inaudible whisper of a _tap-tap-tap-tappa-tap-tap-tap-tappa-tap-tap-tap-tappa-tap_.

Across the room was Maureen, stretched over the rickety old chair with the ripped cushion. Maureen was a shifter, twisting her body into strange patterns around her immediate area, first laying down as if in a hammock with her legs hanging over the arm, then upside down on her back on the seat, legs in the air, then curled into a ball on the seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs, spreading her arms and then folding them across her chest, never in the same position for more than thirty seconds.

It was like this that they sat, fidgeting, twisting, doodling, tapping, shifting, saying nothing. The door slid open, and they all looked up simultaneously, a moment of hope. Then, Joanne's worried face registered, as did her words. "I couldn't get a hold of Benny anywhere; I don't know where he is."

Roger got angry, quickly. "Where the hell is he? Does he even care? I wonder if he's the one orchestrating this, I'm sure Daddy Grey would approve…" Mimi shook her head.

"Benny may not always make the right choices, but he would never do something like that," she said.

Collins nodded. "He's a good guy, he's our friend. Maybe he just got laid up."

"He said he'd tell us what's going on by noon," Maureen said. "It's already past four, and he hasn't even called."

"What _exactly_ did he say to you on the phone, Maureen?" Angel asked.

"He said that he knows who's behind this, he can't say for legal reasons, but that he knows where Mark is. He said he was going to try to get him out of there, and that he would give us an update by noon."

"Guys," Joanne interjected quietly. "There's something else." She held up a cassette tape, and the tension instantly became thicker. The last video had horrified them more than the first, and they were afraid to see what might happen to Mark.

Roger spoke up again, quieter. "I don't want you guys to have to see that again. Would anyone object if I'm the only one who watches this?"

"Naw, Roger, that's nasty stuff. I want to see that so I can think of every last thing they did to Mark when I pound the shit out of them," Collins said.

"Me too," Maureen said. Roger turned to Mimi, Joanne, and Angel.

"Do any of you guys object?" They shook their heads. "Alright, do you mind going down to Mimi's for a little while? We'll come get you when we're finished."

"Sounds good," Mimi said as she leaned up to give him a kiss. "It's going to be okay," she whispered in his ear as she ruffled his hair and left with Joanne and Angel. Collins popped the cassette into the dusty old VCR.

"_December 27th, Ms. Johnson. Another day, another punishment for your friend here." _They watched in horror as they dragged a bleary Mark upright, and emptied a syringe into his arm. Roger resisted the urge to cover his eyes. Not Mark. Please, not Mark. Don't let it be heroin. Don't let them do that to him. God, what if that needle wasn't clean?

His fears were alleviated and escalated at the same time, when all three realized it was not smack, but a hallucinogen, and a powerful one, at that. Roger watched as they held him down, as he sweated and struggled in their grip, then felt his heart snap as he heard the first noises of the drug making its way to his brain.

"_Roger… let me up… Rog…" The man leered at his friend. Mark twisted his head around, panicking. "Col-lins… An-gel… help…" he pleaded to a couple of thugs. They laughed, then sprinkled broken glass on his scrawny body, his blood beginning to drip out from hundreds of tiny gashes._

_He threw his head back, panting, only to see more men gathered around to watch his torment, and shuddered at another undoubtedly horrible hallucination. He looked to the heavens, finding the thug he had seen before, who was present at all of the other beatings, and strangely enough, smiled, his body no longer tense. Then the thug stomped on his ribs again, and Mark screamed, an agonized, terrified scream._

_Finally, the torment and beating stopped, and Mark puked all over the floor, and then huddled into the fetal position, shaking violently. _

"_Better make up your mind."_

Roger's mouth was open like a fish, his entire body trembling, though whether from rage or fear, he couldn't tell. Collins was a slight greenish color, having never seen drugs at work before. Maureen was silent, her gaze frozen on the black screen, as if staring at it long enough would make Mark appear and say it was all a joke, ha ha ha.

Maureen stood up abruptly, taking long strides towards the kitchen. Roger came out of his shock. "Maureen, what are you doing?" She ignored him, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket and picking up the phone, dialing a number. Collins and Roger watched her apprehensively.

"Hello? This is Maureen Johnson speaking." She scowled. "Yes. No, I won't. Yes." She hung up the phone.

"Who was that?" Collins asked, curious. Maureen turned towards them.

"That was Mr. Richard Johnson, an associate of Mr. Grey."

"Why were you talking to him?"

"I cancelled the protest," she said, her voice suddenly flat.

"What?" Roger exclaimed. "Why? That's like giving up, Maureen, giving in, you can't-"

"I can and I damn well will!" Maureen yelled. "They're hurting Mark, Roger! I can't bear to see them- to see him… I can't live with myself, knowing that they're… it's all my fault, I can't-" She broke into sobs, and Collins wrapped an arm around her shoulder, leading her to the couch.

Roger's gaze softened. "Collins, why don't you go get Mimi and Joanne and Angel?" He nodded, and left. "Maureen, I'm sorry," he said. "I know it's been tough on you, but it's not your fault. What you're doing is perfectly legal, and righteous."

Her tears stopped, and she dried her eyes. "I know. But I can't let them hurt him anymore, Roger… Even though I'm in love with Joanne, and she's my heart and soul, I still love Mark like a brother, and I can't let him go through this for me." He handed her a tissue. "Thanks." Someone knocked on the door, and Roger got up, letting the rest of the gang back into the loft.

Joanne immediately noticed Maureen's red eyes. "Honey, what's wrong?"

"I gave in, Joanne. I cancelled the protest." Joanne was as shocked as Roger had been.

"Maureen, why did you- how could you do that, without telling any of us? It's our choice as much as it is yours now!"

Maureen became angry. "Look, I just explained this to Roger, and-"

"I don't care what you explained to Roger, it's-"

"I can't let them do this to him, I-"

"You're giving in, and pretending this is only your-"

"It is my decision!"

"Quiet!" Roger bellowed. "I thought I heard someone knock." A knock sounded again, slightly louder, and Roger got up to get the door. He slid it open, then gasped. Standing in the doorway was a sopping wet, shivering, battered Mark. He tottered for a moment, then collapsed. Roger caught him, barely grunting from the scrawny blonde's weight.

"Mark!" Mimi gasped, hurrying off to get a first aid kit.

"Where are the blankets?" Angel asked desperately.

"Bottom of the closet, to the left," Collins pointed, grabbing some pillows.

"Should I call an ambulance?" Joanne asked.

Roger laid Mark on the sofa, and arranged the pile of blankets and pillows around him. He felt the albino's forehead. "He's got a slight fever, and looks pretty beat up, but I think he'll be OK. He doesn't look like he's bleeding, so I think we can wait until he's awake to patch him up."

Collins pulled a battered old sleeping bag out of the closet. "I don't know about you all, but I'm staying here tonight."

Angel wrapped an arm around his waist. "Seconded."

"Thirded," Joanne smiled.

"Fourthed…ed," Maureen laughed. They grabbed a couple more old sleeping bags, and spread out on the cold floor, the couples huddling together for heat.

Roger got up and turned off the lights, then gently brushed Mark's hair out of his now-peaceful face. "Glad to have you back, buddy," he whispered, before climbing into the sleeping bag with Mimi, and falling into the first dreamless sleep in a long time.


	13. Awake

Mark fell off of the sofa with a soft _fwump_, his blanket-swaddled body barely making a noise as he hit the floor. He awoke, breathing heavily, as a few droplets of sweat clung to his flushed face. Where was he? He surveyed his surroundings carefully as the memories of the last 24 hours came back to him. He looked to his right, seeing Joanne and Maureen curled up together, then to his left, Angel cuddled on top of a sprawled out Collins. Mimi's sleeping form laid directly in front of him, and he strained his neck attempting to see over her, but couldn't make out where Roger was.

A sudden wave of panic overtook him as he realized he had no idea where his camera was. Looking around frantically, he made out a blurry shape in the dark, which he eventually made out to be his jacket, wrapped around his camera, where he had dropped it. He relaxed, mind eased, only to tense again at the thought of getting back onto to the couch.

Rocking back and forth a bit, he managed to roll onto his side, facing the couch. Tugging his arms free of the blanket, he gingerly grabbed onto the edge of the sofa, pulled, then winced as rockets of pain shot through his chest and legs. He tried again, managing to get a couple of inches off of the ground before falling back to the floor. Steadying himself, he succeeded in sitting up, his arms straining to keep him upright. Roger's face appeared, startling him, and he toppled back to the ground once more.

Roger held in a laugh at the sight of his klutzy, bundled up friend in a heap on the floor. A pair of blue eyes, bright even in the darkness, peered up at him. "R…Roger? Is that you? I can't see, I don't have my glasses on… Sorry for waking you."

Roger shook his head. "Nah, it's alright. I woke up to get some aspirin, I've got a killer headache." He surveyed the scene below him. "Need a hand?"

"Two, if you could, mine don't seem to be working all that well." Roger chuckled, then put an arm behind Mark's neck, another behind his back, then tenderly lifted him until he was sitting on the edge of the sofa. He laid back, the world seeming to lose focus again. "Thanks, Roger…"

"Mark? Mark, you okay?" Roger felt his forehead. "Crap, man, you're burning up, stay awake for a little longer, I need to get you some medicine." He stepped softly through the piles of sleeping bodies, then went to the medicine cupboard. Crap, crap, where was the…?

He finally found the medicine, then grabbed a cup and filled it with somewhat cool water from the sink. He made his way back to Mark, who appeared to be on the verge of falling asleep again. Roger tilted his head up, then dropped the pill into the water and put the glass between his lips. "Drink." Mark drank greedily, the water soothing his dry throat and restoring some alertness. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and sat up. "Why were you up, anyway?"

"I fell off the sofa."

"So I figured. It was more a question of why."

"It's not exactly a big couch, Roger."

"And you're not exactly a big guy, Mark. Besides, you normally sleep like a rock, and I don't think I've ever seen you move in your sleep before." Mark said nothing. "Mark?"

"I was… having nightmares. I guess they got a bit too vivid and I took a flying leap off of the couch," he joked weakly.

"You want to tell me about them?"

Mark shook his head slightly. "Nah. They were just really weird, probably fever-induced," he smiled. "I'll be fine. Take your aspirin and go back to bed."

"Yes, Mom," Roger teased, popping a tablet and laying down next to Mimi. Mark watched as his breathing slowly evened out as he fell asleep, then pulled the blanket over him and closed his eyes, unsleeping. It was going to be a long night.


	14. Revive

He blinked sleepily as he woke up, the sunlight filtering in through the windows illuminating the loft. Rubbing his eyes, Mark slid his legs off of the couch, and tested his weight on them. He seemed steady enough, so he pushed himself up, wincing slightly at the aching throughout his torso. Slowly stepping around the slumbering couples, he limped to his bedroom, fumbled with the handle of the top drawer of his night table, and emerged rather victoriously with a pair of glasses. Sliding them on, he was relieved to see his vision was no worse than normal. He checked the small clock next to his bed. 7:03, the rest probably wouldn't be up for a while.

Limping back to the kitchen area, still blinking sleep out of his eyes, he reflected on the cause of his sleeplessness.

_They cornered him after school, shoving him into a locker, padlocking the door. The metal closed in on him, fitting his shape, paralyzing him. The door swung open, and Roger pulled him out. He grinned, and turned into Maureen, pressing him against the lockers, kissing him, then collapsing. Mark bent over her, crying, as she opened her eyes and smiled, transforming into Raymond, wrapping a hand around his neck, pinning him to the ground._

Stop thinking about it. It was just a nightmare. Mark put some hot water in the pot for coffee.

_He dragged him past his home, where his parents watched with glazed eyes as he was dragged away, into the foyer, into the loft. Fingernails scratched him, beat down on him as he cowered, as the loft transformed into his prison. He grabbed him, threw him out onto the empty street…_

"Mark!" He jumped, startled by her sudden appearance. "What are you doing up? You're in no shape to be up and about."

"I'm fine, Joanne, really."

She just looked at him, then, with the determination bred from years of court cases, strode up to him. She pressed her hand against his chest, "Cracked rib, possibly broken," fingers against his arms, "assorted bruises," hand over the back of his head, "moderate laceration, possible blood loss," she nudged his ankle with her foot, and he nearly collapsed. "Sprained ankle," she surveyed him again, "and, judging by the bags under your eyes, you didn't sleep well. Trauma." Joanne folded her arms. "You're hurt. Go lie down."

Mark begrudgingly limped back to the sofa and did as she commanded, resting his head on the pillow. His shirt was pushed up, and he looked up to see a somewhat more sympathetic Joanne holding a first aid kit. "Stay still." Taking out a roll of gauze, she wrapped it around his chest, compressing it slightly. She held a wet washcloth to the back of his head, and wiped away the dried blood, then dabbed antiseptic on the cut. He watched her, curious, as she began to put his ankle in a splint.

"Hey, Joanne."

"Yeah?" she said, not looking up.

"Since when'd you learn to be a nurse?" he teased.

"Since I got involved with a bunch of boneheads who seem to attract trouble," she retorted. She finished wrapping up the splint. "There. I can't do anything about the bruises, so just try to take it easy, alright?"

"Yeah, yeah. Now can I get up again?"

"Nope," Joanne replied, getting up. "Stay there, I'll look for some breakfast."

Mark sighed. "Are you going to at least let me up to go to the protest?" She looked at him. "What?"

"Mark, Maureen cancelled the protest."

"What? When?"

"Less than an hour before you showed up. She was scared."

"But she loves her protests," Mark protested.

"Not as much as she loves you."

Mark gaped at her. "What?"

Joanne gave him a small smile. "We may be 'together', and she's promised to change her ways," Mark snorted, "but she'll always love you, at the very least like a little brother."

Mark looked around. "Where is the drama queen, anyway?"

"She went on a walk."

"Oh," Mark replied lamely, lying back once more and closing his eyes. Maureen still loved him? That was news to him… He drifted off, lulled into a doze by Joanne's soft humming and the occasional clang of a pan.

* * *

He rubbed his eyes as he awoke once more, then yelped as he was startled off the bed by the face less than two inches from his. Collins chuckled as Mark glared up at him. "Real nice, Collins, real nice."

"Hey, it's 9 o' clock, man, time to get rolling."

Mark craned his head to the left. "Looks like I'm not the only one who was still asleep," he said, pointing accusingly at Mimi and Roger.

Angel reached down and grabbed his hand. "Aw, leave the poor chico alone, Collins."

Mimi stretched out lazily, half-awake. "Yeah, little Marky needs his sleep."

A bedheaded Roger peered over Mimi. "Help the poor cripple up, Tom."

Collins groaned. "Looks like I'm outnumbered," he said, good-naturedly giving Mark a hand. The pair pulled him up, giggling at his bedraggled appearance.

As soon as he was up, Mark flopped back onto the couch, sticking his tongue out at Collins. "So, what's for breakfast?" Roger asked from the floor.

"Ooh, getting all high and mighty, are we, chico?" Angel laughed, mussing his hair. "Since when do you two bother to keep food around the loft?"

"Aw, but I'm hungry…" Roger moaned. "Look, my stomach, it's positively caving in!" he joked.

Maureen opened the door, holding a grocery bag. "Never fear, hungry civilians!" Roger was up in a flash, rummaging through it as soon as she set it on the table.

"Cap'n Crunch! And milk! Score!" he exclaimed, giving Maureen a high five. The rest of them joined him at the metal table, leaning over their chipped bowls. Joanne gave Mark a look for getting off of the sofa, and he raised an eyebrow, daring her to say anything. They ate in silence, scarfing down the rest of the box happily. "Maureen, you are a saint," Roger said. "So, what are we going to do today?"

"Life Support?" Collins suggested.

"Actually, I need you guys to help me set up," Maureen said.

"Set up? For what?" Joanne asked skeptically.

Maureen's eyes shone brightly as she answered. "For the protest. It's back on."


	15. Exchange

"_Hello? This is Maureen Johnson speaking."_

"_Please hold."_

"_Ms. Johnson, so glad you called. Have you decided to take us up on our offer?"_

"_Yes."_

"_Well, glad you finally came to your senses. We'll make sure your friend is returned to you shortly."_

_A pause. _

"_Of course, you wouldn't dream of breaking your word, would you?" _

_Another pause._

"_No, I won't."_

"_Good. Because you understand the consequences if you do, correct?"_

"_Yes."_

"_It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Ms. Johnson."_

"_If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and try again," the voice intoned._

_Silence._


	16. Comeback

Maureen leaned her head against the metal arch of the stage, her eyes closed. It just wasn't fair… She ran a finger over one of her frayed posters.

And then... inspiration struck. Mark was back. They couldn't hurt him anymore. They had nothing to hold over her head. Plus, nobody besides their gang had been informed of the cancellation. The protest could go on! She looked at the cracked old clock. 7:30, that was more than enough time to set up, if she could just get her friends to help.

She hustled to the grocery store, and picked up some food, doubtful that Roger had done any grocery shopping while Mark was out of commission. She jogged up the stairs, and distinctly heard Roger moaning about his empty stomach. She slid the door open. "Never fear, hungry civilians!"

They all chowed down happily, even Mark, who Maureen was glad to see was on his feet again. "Maureen, you are a saint," Roger said. "So, what are we going to do today?"

"Life Support?" Collins suggested.

"Actually, I need you guys to help me set up," Maureen said.

"Set up? For what?" Joanne asked skeptically.

Maureen's eyes shone brightly as she answered. "For the protest. It's back on."

A small cheer went up among the seven. "That's great!" Collins said, clapping her on the back. "Come on guys, let's get rolling!"


	17. Rehearsal

The hours passed in a blur of clatters from carrying props and cleaning the performance space. Everyone was doing something. Collins and Roger toted equipment around, and Joanne made last-minute calls, trying to get a reporter to do a segment on the protest. Angel and Mimi swept the floors and washed some of the graffiti off of the walls, while Maureen sang scales on the stage. Mark sat on the edge of the stage, adjusting the sound for her when needed.

"Hey Joanne," Roger called, his face partially hidden by the large speaker he was carrying, "did you ever hear back from Benny?"

"No," she said. "In fact, I was just trying to get a hold of him. His secretary says she hasn't seen him, and Alison says he's not feeling well."

Roger snorted. "I wouldn't be surprised if she's keeping him from talking to us."

"Roger," Mark said tiredly, "be nice. We met her at the wedding, remember? She's a nice girl; lay off of her for once." Roger opened his mouth to argue, then shut it. He was right, she had never actually done anything to them.

"Alright, guys, half an hour till showtime."

* * *

Benny held the ice pack to his head, leaning back against the white leather couch. Alison looked at him worriedly. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he lied. Truthfully, his head was pounding, and his leg was still sore. He had told her that he had gotten mugged on the way back from her dad's office, not wanting to upset her. Those thugs had let him off pretty easy, knowing that he was the boss' son, but even so, after Mark had escaped they had been pretty pissed…

"Why don't I get you some aspirin and hot tea?"

He sighed. "That would be great." The telephone rang, and he winced, his migraine getting worse.

She picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Who is it?"

"_Hi, this is Joanne Jefferson, I'm a friend of Benny's. Is he in?"_

"He's not feeling well."

_"Alright, could you please have him call me back later?"_

"Sure."

_"Thanks."_

She hung up, and turned to him. "Just one of your friends, they want you to call back when you're feeling up to it."

He jumped up. "Shit, was that Joanne? I need to talk to her!" She yanked the phone away.

"You're hurt. Take your aspirin and tea, and go lie down, you can call later."

He sighed. "Alright."


	18. Orders

Joanne scurried down the ladder as fast as she could. Why, _why _on _earth _did she have to wear heels? She ducked as something flew past her head, and winced. The equipment was going to cost a fortune to replace. Someone grabbed her shoulders, and she whirled around. "Calm down, pookie, it's me," Maureen said breathlessly. "We've got to get out of here."

"What about everyone else? What if they get hurt?"

"We'll regroup outside," Maureen said, guiding her through the rioting crowd. "Come on!" Eventually, they made it through the mass of angry people, a bit frazzled, but unhurt. "I told them we'd party at the Life Café afterwards, we can meet them there."

* * *

They stepped inside the warm building, a mussed up Angel entering shortly after, followed closely by Collins and Roger. "Where's Mark?" Collins asked.

Roger resisted the urge to turn around frantically. "Wasn't he right behind us?"

"I thought so, but he disappeared!" Collins said, shaking his head.

Roger calmed himself. It's OK, Mark is fine… "I'm sure he's fine, he probably just got laid up in the chaos," he said, reassuring himself. "Why don't we get a table and wait, there's no use just standing around."

* * *

"Richard!" Mr. Grey growled, slamming his hand down on the table. "Do you know who I just got a call from? Alexi Darling, Alexi fucking Darling, from that fucking news show Buzzline, asking for my view on the riot!"

"_You said she called it off."_

"Yes, but that was before you let her friend escape!"

"_Well, what can I do?"_

"I'll tell you what you can do, you can find that little fucker and deal with him, and show Ms. Johnson that you do _not _fuck with me, you got that?"

"_Yes, Mr. Grey."_


	19. Reconvene

Mark hurried into the dim restaurant, his camera clutched tightly in front of him to keep it safe from the people flailing wildly to the pulsating music. He glanced around, and quickly spotted his friends already at a large table. He skirted around the edge of the room, hoping to sit down inconspicuously. "Pookie!" Maureen shrieked, jumping up. "Where were you?"

"Yeah, where were you?" Roger asked.

"Relax, guys," Mark said. "I didn't want to fight through the crowd, so I waited until the fighting died down, then met up with Alexi."

"Alexi?" Maureen asked curiously.

"She bought my footage of the riot," Mark said, obviously quite pleased with himself.

Maureen shrieked again, and Mark winced. "Oh, Pookie!" she said, nearly tackling him in an exuberant hug. Collins got up and extracted him from her grip.

"Let the boy breathe, Maureen," he said, pulling Mark into the chair between him and Roger. "Well, better late than never, right? Have a beer!" Mark took a long swig, and Maureen raised her glass happily. "To Mark!" she toasted.

"To Mark!"

* * *

He saw the blonde-headed filmmaker enter the room, and stood up abruptly from the bar, and pulled out his cell phone. "I'll be out in a minute."

"_Gotcha."_


	20. Promises

Mark took another long swig of his beer, rubbing his temples as he tried to offset the pounding headache. The loud bass on the music wasn't helping, and he winced at a particularly loud drum solo. Where was everyone? Maybe he could find somebody to talk to, preferably somebody not puking their guts out or muttering drunkenly. Well, he thought wryly, that rules out about ninety-five percent of the people here. It was too warm, stifling, so he took off his jacket, and set down his camera. He got up and took a seat at the bar, hoping to figure out where his friends were, or at least talk to a girl.

Angel and Collins were dancing enthusiastically out on the floor, and Maureen and Joanne were talking rather animatedly with a couple of girls across the room. The bartender wordlessly gave Mark another beer, and he chugged it down. Where were Roger and Mimi? His headache grew stronger, and he couldn't think. Something collided with his side, and he turned around to see Roger and Mimi making out. He got up again, attempting to relocate, but the jostling crowd blocked him in every direction. He couldn't think, he could barely see, he couldn't breathe through all the smoke.

He turned a 180 and made a beeline for the door, pushing it open and inhaling deeply, the fresh, cold air filling his lungs. He stepped outside as the door closed quietly behind him and closed his eyes, turning his face upwards to the snow that was beginning to fall.

Without warning, he was slammed against the wall. He was instantly sober, his eyes flying open, then widening. A familiar face leered down at him. "Hello, Marky."

Mark was terrified. He shivered, suddenly cold, and gulped. "Why are you here? The p-protest is over," he said, mentally cursing himself for revealing his fear. Another voice rang out from the shadows.

"Miss Johnson promised us that she was going to stop her protest." A small smile. "She broke her promise, so we get to break you." He glanced at his watch. "I, however, have somewhere to be, so Mr. Kirk here will take care of you. Goodbye, Mr. Cohen." He walked out of the back entrance of the alley without another word, and turned the corner, out of sight.

Mark turned his attention back to his attacker. "Well, well, looks like it's just you and me, Marky," Raymond grinned. Mark paled, then broke free of his grip in a flash, rattling the locked door of the restaurant. Raymond was surprised for only a moment, then yanked him back into his chest. "Nice try."

* * *

Angel briefly looked up from Collins' comfortable shoulder to see the back door rattling. "Maybe we should go open it," she said worriedly.

"Don't worry about it," Collins said, relaxed. "It's probably just some drunk who's too hammered to remember the front door. Let's go get another drink."

"Alright, baby," she said, soothed.

* * *

"Please," Mark said, struggling against him, "just leave me alone!"

"Sorry," he said, pushing him to the ground, "No can do."

The kicks came at him one after another, and Mark barely held in a sob as his already battered ribs were assaulted. He tried to crawl away, and a heavy foot came down on his leg. Mark screamed as he felt his leg break, the pain rocketing throughout his body. Raymond grabbed his collar and slammed him against the wall, his head cracking off of it. A punch rocked his head sideways, and sent his glasses flying, while another doubled him over.

* * *

Maureen looked over her shoulder, then turned back around. "What are you looking for, honey?" Joanne asked.

"Oh, nothing," she said, slightly tipsy. "Just looking for Mark, I need to buy him a drink for helping me with the footage and everything."

Joanne wrapped an arm around her. "We can find him later, sweetie, let's just enjoy the party."

Maureen smiled. "Two shots, please!"

* * *

He was pushed upright, and he expected another flurry of blows, but instead he felt kisses, trailing up and down his neck. Confused, he tried to push his assailant away. Without looking up, Raymond snapped his wrist, and Mark gasped from the pain. He collapsed, his leg unable to support him, and a heavy weight descended on top of him.

* * *

Roger and Mimi cuddled in their corner, unaware of the world. Roger pulled away from her kiss long enough to breathe, and see Mark's coat and camera resting on the chair. Wonder where he went? he thought momentarily, before Mimi roped her arms around his neck and pulled him back in for another kiss.

* * *

A hand played with his zipper, and Mark thrashed blindly, trying to dislodge the person pinning him down. Raymond twisted his arm behind his back painfully, and Mark whimpered as he tugged his zipper down, then yanked his pants down his ankles eagerly. A finger rubbed around the small of his back, and traced around the hem of his boxers, eventually pulling them down as well. He heard the sound of another zipper, and then his wrists were pinned above his head, his face pressed into the cold snow, he couldn't feel he couldn't see he couldn't breathe…

* * *

Angel and Collins were kissing passionately, now, Angel curled up into Collins as they moved together to the music. It wasn't a slow song, but they didn't care; they were together, and that was all that mattered.

* * *

Raymond lazily ran the tip of the switchblade over his cheek, and under his eye. "Maybe I should cut out your pretty little eyes. Not being able to see, not being able to make films… how would that feel?" Mark said nothing, and he slapped him. "Wakey wakey, Marky, gotta stay awake for this." Still nothing. "I'd be grateful if I were you. At least I don't have AIDS like your faggoty friends." Silence. "Well, then, how about round two?" Mark's eyes snapped open, and he tried to speak, but his throat wouldn't work. "I'll take that as a yes."

There was no more screaming, only sobbing, tears falling silently into the snow.

* * *

The lights were turned on, the music was off, and drunken bohemians collected their equally drunk friends and staggered out. The three couples collected their things from the table.

"Hey," Collins said, more sober now. "Where's Mark? His stuff's all here, but the place is empty." He held up a tipsy Angel.

"I don't know," Roger said, supporting Mimi. "I think I saw him go outside, earlier, but I'm not sure."

Joanne petted the hair of a passed out Maureen. "How about I drive the girls back to the loft, and you two can look for him? I'll call the payphone at the corner if he's at home, alright?"

"Sounds good," Roger said. "Here, take his camera and stuff."

They headed out the door, making small talk as they loaded their friends into the back of Joanne's car, and watched them drive off towards the loft.

"Come on," Roger said, "Let's go look for Mark."

* * *

He saw the light filter out of the front entrance, and heard the voices. He stood up fluidly, zipping his jeans. He yanked the young man up from the ground, pulled up his pants, then slung him over his shoulder, climbing up the rusty fire escape. He let him fall onto the small platform, and leaned down. "Tell anyone my name and you die, got it?" Mark didn't move. "Got it?" He nodded minutely, and Raymond climbed down the fire escape, and turned out the back of the alley and into the night.


	21. Discovery

They turned into the alleyway, looking around. "I don't see him, Rog," Collins said, scratching his head. "He wasn't walking around, and he wasn't at any of the normal places."

"Do you think he's OK?"

"I don't know, Roger, I sure hope so… Let's check around here a little bit more."

* * *

He laid there, utterly motionless. His eyes were closed because it hurt too much to open them. He wasn't cold anymore; in fact, he had started to go numb, which was a miracle. He vaguely wondered if he had any large wounds; maybe, if he was lucky, he could bleed to death, which was faster than freezing. A light dusting of snow had begun to cover him, and he urged it to hurry up and kill him already.

Suddenly, there were voices. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but they seemed familiar. They passed directly under him. "I don't know, Roger, I sure hope so…" _Roger. Collins._ He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The voices faded away, and his heart sank, his last hope gone.

* * *

"We've searched everywhere, Collins, where could he be?"

"Look, Roger, I'm as clueless as you, alright? Maybe he's back at the loft, and we didn't hear the payphone or something… I'm going to go call Joanne, okay?"

"Alright," Roger said, sighing. He looked up. "Damn, it's really coming down." Something moved in his peripheral vision, and he turned around to see the end of a scarf, fluttering off the edge of the fire escape. Roger froze. _Mark._ He sprinted towards the rickety ladder and scrambled up. _Oh God oh God Mark…_

* * *

The fire escape started to shake, and Mark's eyes shot open. A blurry figure stood at the edge of the platform. Mark panicked. "No, no, please, don't, not again, leave me alone, no, don't…"

"Oh my God, Mark!"

* * *

Roger reached the top of the fire escape, and a barely audible gasp escaped his lips. Mark laid there, his leg twisted at an odd angle. He was pale, paler than usual, his skin nearly the same color as the snow around him, and his collar was pushed down to reveal bite marks and dark purple splotches mottling his skin. The worst part, however, was when he opened his eyes. They were empty, completely blank. "No, no, please, don't, not again, leave me alone, no, don't…" he whimpered.

"Oh my God, Mark!" Roger freaked out. What had happened to him?

Mark's eyes focused momentarily on him, and he visibly relaxed. "Roger…" He closed his eyes.

"Mark, hang in there, man, just hang on!" He whipped around and leaned over the railing. "Collins!" he shouted desperately. "Collins, it's Mark! Help!" Collins came running around the corner.

"What?"

"I found Mark, he's in really bad shape, I'm not sure how we can get him down!"

"Can you pick him up?" Collins asked, anxious.

"I think so…" Roger said uncertainly. "I'll try!" He gingerly wrapped an arm around Mark's waist and lifted, moving slowly not because he was heavy, but because he didn't want to jostle his injuries any more. "Got him!"

"Alright, can you climb down the ladder halfway? I can take him from there!"

Roger wrapped one hand tightly around the railing of the ladder, and gently started lowering himself. Mark's legs dangled, and Roger slid his hand quickly down the side of the ladder, then lowered himself a bit more. He inched down a few more feet, until Collins was directly beneath. "Ready?"

"Lower him down!" Roger dropped Mark into Collins' arms, then made a dash for the pay phone, while Collins took his coat off and wrapped it around Mark. Roger punched in the numbers frantically.

"_Hello?"_

"Joanne, it's Roger. We found him, he's really hurt, we don't think we'll be able to get him home. Can you come pick us up? We need to get to the hospital, fast."

"_Oh my God, I'll be there as soon as I can!"_

Roger rushed back to Collins, who was looking at Mark worriedly. "How is he?" Collins looked mildly uncomfortable. "What?" Collins lifted up his bloody right hand, and Roger reeled back.

"This is what leaked onto my hand when I was holding him, Roger," he said, looking like he was about to cry. "His pants… they're completely soaked with blood…"

"Oh my God," Roger whispered. "Oh my God. Mark…"

Joanne pulled up to the curb, and Collins lifted him into the backseat. Roger slid into the front. "What happened to him?"

"We don't know, Joanne, just… drive, please just drive." She would've pushed it, but they both looked more distraught than she had ever seen them, so she kept her mouth shut as she gunned the motor and sped off towards the hospital.


	22. Broken

He drifted in and out of consciousness, nothing taking more than a brief, blurry shape before fading back into blackness.

_He bit the crook of his neck, and he whimpered as the crushing weight on top of him explored his body with his hands._

"Stay with us, Mark, we're almost there," Collins murmured, running a cool hand over his burning forehead. "Stay with us."

"_Stop… god, stop, please…" he pled, sobbing. Rough hands shut around his throat as another mouth crashed against his, dominating his mouth with his tongue. _

The car slid to a stop, and Collins scooped up the limp body and ran for the entrance, Roger not far behind him.

"_You think anyone's going to care?" he hissed in his ear, shifting inside of him. "Nobody cares. Nobody even noticed when you disappeared from the party. They don't need you, you're just a burden to them, tagging along. You're alone, you're poor, you're _worthless._ They'll act sad when you're gone, but they'll secretly be relieved that they don't have to put up with you anymore. You should be grateful that anybody _wants _to touch you, to take you, because nobody else will. You're worthless."_

He pushed open the door, careful not to jostle Mark. "Do you need-"

"Our friend needs help, fast, he was attacked!"

The nurse picked up the phone. "Can I get a gurney here, it's urgent!" Within a minute, a team of doctors had arrived. They loaded him onto the gurney, and wheeled him away quickly. Collins and Roger sat down. Roger put his head into his hands, and for the first time that night, he cried.

_Mark hadn't cried since he was a small child, but now he sobbed, the pain shooting through his core. A hand stroked his face and pulled him in for another rough kiss. His grip tightened on his face as he slammed into him again, and he went limp. The pain dulled to a throbbing ache throughout him as he detached his mind from his body, and curled up inside of his head. It didn't matter anymore. He was broken._


	23. Silence

Joanne entered a few minutes later, seating herself silently next to Collins. Hours passed. Collins and Joanne fell into a light doze while Roger kept watch, his head snapping up every time a doctor walked into the room. Finally, a tired-looking man approached them. Roger wasn't surprised; it was about 3 am. "You're here with Mr. Cohen?" Roger nodded, his throat sealed shut. "He has been treated for a broken leg, dislocated shoulder, and broken wrist. He was severely hypothermic when you brought him in, but we managed to stabilize him. However, there still remains the issue of doing a rape kit. Mr. Cohen is still unconscious, so we need consent." Roger nodded again. "A wise choice. If we can find some DNA, it will be extremely useful if you intend to press charges." The doctor left as quickly as he had come, and Roger massaged his temples, the wave of anxiety threatening to overtake him. He leaned back against the chair and closed his eyes.

* * *

"Roger." Nudge. "Roger, man, wake up," Collins whispered.

Roger rubbed his eyes. "What time is it?"

"4 am."

"We have to go check up on Mark," Joanne said quietly. "I cleared it with the doctor."

"They finally got done pumping all that shit into him, so he might wake up soon." He gave Roger his hand, and pulled him up, leading him down the hallway. "The nurse said room 205…" They stopped in front of a generic door marked 205, with "Mark Cohen" hastily scribbled onto a sheet of paper taped under it. Collins pushed open the door gently, and bit his lip nervously as he moved to sit down. Roger mimicked him, and the three of them looked down at their unconscious friend. Whatever people said about patients looking tiny in the hospital bed was wrong; Mark's presence filled up the entire room, silent except for the soft whirring of the machines. His leg was elevated and in a cast, as was his arm from his shoulder to his wrist.

"I'm going to kill that bastard," Roger said softly.

Collins put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I'm going to go call Maureen," Joanne said.

"No, we can't spring this on them like this," Collins said. His gaze drifted to his friend, who was still focused completely on Mark. "Why don't we go back and break it to them, and Roger can keep watch over Mark."

"Roger, is that alright?" Nothing. "Roger?" A nod. "OK, we'll be back soon… take care of Mark for us."

Silence.


End file.
